


sorrow found me when I was young (it's in my honey, it's in my milk)

by kitausu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:30:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitausu/pseuds/kitausu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But he was fine, and if he sometimes woke with his pillow damp, and drying tear tracks on his face, well no one had to know. The Sheriff confronts Stiles about the things he calls out in his sleep after Party Guessed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sorrow found me when I was young (it's in my honey, it's in my milk)

Derek had practically forced him into this, refusing to even let him into the Hale house until he ‘took care of the stench’, which Scott had later translated with his ever characteristic bluntness.

“Dude, you smell like grief,” which was a completely ridiculous, untrue, punch to the gut…the gut that currently felt like something had crawled into and died in…okay so maybe the untrue bit was a little harsh.

But he was fine, and if he sometimes woke with his pillow damp, and drying tear tracks on his face, well no one had to know. It was his business if he couldn’t sleep, and when he did, it was his dad’s face in his dreams. No, not his dad, his hallucination, his dad had never…had never outright told him the truth. He tried to convince himself it was a relief, hey Stiles had been right yet again, but the victory was a hollow ball lodged at the back of his throat.

Last night had been another one of those nights, where he tossed and turned until just a few hours before his alarm, only to wake up gasping for air and the fading memory echoing in his ears… _It was all your fault. You killed her._

He lay there for a while, watching the ceiling fan pulse shadows across his face, his hand clenched tight and fierce over the uncontrollable ache in his stomach. His mind was on autopilot as it sifted around, searching for the mask he usually wore until he remembered it was Saturday. No school, and his dad was at work, there was no reason to waste the energy. He slumped out of bad like a ragdoll, his feet acting as if they could barely support his weight enough to carry him out of the room and down the stairs. He didn’t bother to wash his face, or change his sweat damped shirt. His mind unhelpfully point out how pathetic he was being but he brushed it aside because he deserved this damnit. It was a testament to how lost he was, how much he was truly drowning, that he didn’t notice the smell of bacon until he was already in the kitchen, face to face with father. He looked grim and determined, maybe expecting a fight about the pancakes piled high on the table, except this was different. Something dropped out of Stiles at that moment, the small drop of hope that maybe the last bit of his heart would make it out of the house unscathed.

His father placed the plate firm and decisive in front of his son’s chair, “Take a seat Stiles, we need to talk.”

He could feel the panic attack bubbling up beneath his lungs but he fought it back, trying to appear normal but knowing it was a losing fight.

“What about dad?” he took a bite of the bacon, it fell apart like ash in his mouth.

To his father’s credit he only looked uncomfortable for a moment, before something hard and determined settled in his eyes, “You’ve been calling out in your sleep…screaming really.”

Oh _fuck,_ this was worse…this…he knew he had been screaming in his dreams but…maybe if he played it off, “Oh? What about?”

“Stiles.” No, he hadn’t honestly thought that would work, even trying had been pathetic.

“Do you honestly think that?” now Stiles was confused, the look of horror on his father’s face was throwing him off.

Maybe they weren’t even talking about the way he screamed apologies in his dreams, begging his father to forgive him for…for killing her.

“Do you honestly think you are the reason she died?” the chills were uncontrollable, racing across his skin and rattling his spine, his father just watched on as the truth rang clear in the silence of their tiny kitchen.

His mouth was dry, he wouldn’t, he _couldn’t,_ look away from the scratch in the table, “You know I was.”

The silence was deafening, but welcome and unsurprising, his dad was probably just glad he had finally cottoned on. He kept his eyes trained on the scratch, remembering the way Scott had made it when they were twelve and baking cookies with his mom. She had looked so lovely that afternoon, smelling of lavender and happiness. He was startled out of the memory by a sob that was not his own. He finally wrenched his eyes from the table’s surface up to his father, surprised by the tears, the broken sadness sweeping across his face.

“All these years, you’ve carried that? You’ve thought, all these years, that you were the one… _Stiles_. “ His dad rose from the chair, edging towards him like he was afraid of scaring him off, like he was a frightened animal.

Maybe he was.

He stopped just short of the chair, his voice cracking on the words as he spoke, “Stiles, your mother was _sick._ There was nothing, do you hear me, _nothing,_ that you could have done to…to make it worse. If anything, you kept her stronger longer. Your mother adored you, her love for you kept her happy and at peace all the way to the end.”

He hadn’t even realized he was crying until his dad was hugging him and the shoulder of his shirt was turning damp and soggy beneath him.

“You’re mother loved you more than you could ever know. I know I haven’t been the best about this…afraid of talking about her to you but…we’ll talk about her more, if you want?” he sounded uncertain, but his eyes and hands were steady as he pulled back and looked into the eyes of his son and saw his mother’s eyes.

“Would you like that?” and for once Stiles was speechless, only finding the energy to nod as he fought each sob that wracked his body.

They stood like that until noon, the sheriff’s back and knees aching from standing in one position too long, Stiles’ eyes puffy and red from too many tears, but it was good and cathartic, and maybe something broken healed just a little that day. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for an anon request on my tumblr. I haven't written angst in a while, but hopefully it went well. Comments and feedback are always appreciated.
> 
> xx


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